


Silkworm Motel

by heartratemonitor



Series: Coruscate [2]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Adults, Dubious Consent, F/F, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5088241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartratemonitor/pseuds/heartratemonitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wirt dies at twenty-four and returns to the Unknown, and the Beast finds himself at a disadvantage. Territorial squabbles between Enoch and the witch pair are interrupted when the source of his fixation arrives at his feet. Sequel to Filament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silkworm Motel

The Beast’s arms feel far from home; nothing like Greg’s embraces. Wirt swallows his fear, buries the reality that he will never see his family again, and eyes the light seeping from his wrist as though it is little more than a scab that can be ripped off. There’s the awareness of size disparity; Wirt has felt small his entire life and is even smaller still as he is held and measured by the Beast’s wandering fingers.  
  
Wooden nails scratch at the shell of his ear and removes his knitted winter hat. The young man stills himself through the entire exchange, a tranquil horror setting in with the peeling away of his red hooded jacket. Distantly, Wirt compares himself to a present being unwrapped, but the Beast stops before the fright overpowers him.  
  
“Your attire is strange.”  
  
“2002,” he answers without thinking.  
  
“That explains a lot of things.”  
  
The Beast does not elaborate on his statement. He gestures at the forest-turned-room, which Wirt is now free to examine with the loosened grip on his waist and the similarly loosened unease. Humble wicker furniture with the occasional leaf on the surface decorates the space. The bed itself appears to be made out of some fantasy hybrid of dandelions and cotton; all puff and no sharpness. Above them, glowing fruit serve as lamps.  
  
“Where’s all that bravado gone, child?”  
  
  
Wirt returns his gaze towards the gaping hole in his wrist, light spilling from within. “I always talk like that when someone fights me. It’s habit.”  
  
“You didn’t seem the fighting kind back then.”  
  
To think, a near-casual conversation with a creature that ate souls. Wirt tests the waters and turns his head away, feigning shame, a gesture the Beast immediately corrects with a gentle hand at his chin, returning his gaze towards him.  
  
“You were intelligent enough to cease when you knew you were powerless, so the rest of what I will tell you should be just as simple.”  
  
A hand lowers toward his neck, lightly tracing the delicate skin. Wirt struggles to even his breath.  
  
“You are my property now. I treat well what belongs to me, so long as you comply with my words. Do you understand?”  
  
Being far from an idiot, “what if I don’t” is clearly not an option. Wirt nods slowly, genuinely surprised, and begins to plan all sorts of ways to test the Beast’s lenience. If this were a fairy tale, perhaps love and pity will eventually persuade the creature to let him go.  
  
Then again, said creature eats children for fun, so the odds are not in his favor.  
  
It leans in to kiss him, and Wirt is taken aback, but parts his lips as an offering. He thinks of past relationships with some elements of dominance, and attempts to frame the scenario in palatable, human terms as a safety measure. Their kiss is languid and exploratory; the Beast’s tongue is not quite human; a texture almost akin to snakes, much like his barked skin. Wirt melds into the role, hoping to later reap any paltry reward.  
  
The payment is almost immediate. He is released like a frail maiden onto the bed, restraining the urge to shiver breathlessly into a heap of useless flesh. Be strong. Be compliant. Learn the enemy’s weakness.  
  
(Become the enemy’s weakness?)  
  
“I will return shortly,” the creature says. There is smoke and black fog, and then he is gone.  
  
Wirt passes his gaze along the beautiful wicker (edelwood ivy?) chairs and table for two, a desk, and a drawer with unknown contents. He waits, stationary, for some semblance of safety, before hugging his knees. Pretend its mouth is Sarah’s. Pretend it’s really young Jimi Hendrix. Pretend he paid half a fortune for a fairy tale themed BDSM dungeon.  
  
None of the options work. His eyes, mercifully do not water, but he does lay down and stare at the glowing fruits, almost flattered that the Beast would go through such trouble. The tear at his skin has healed and leaves without a scar; a small victory. (Focus on breathing. Enjoy the flowers crumpling in your grip.) He has to admit, it is an attractive room. The Beast has made a palpable effort to make him somewhat comfortable.  
  
There is a heat in his chest that radiates outward to his limbs. Wirt places his hand at his heart, finding two separate, distinct beats. A faster one - his own, and one slower, and steadier, like the inevitable march of ending. Is it burning him alive? No - and the paradox reveals itself, the Beast’s words warning of the knowledge of death. Wirt knows he is dead, and with that fruit cannot die again in the Unknown.  
  
A limitless fuel source.  
  
He massages his temples, rises from the flower cushions, and heads towards the drawers. Carefully folded clothes and jackets, and even the odd blanket rest within, of antiquated styles. He plucks away one shirt from the folded pile; it is bluish-grey like his eyes, as though the Beast bothered to remember. In his concentrated effort, he peels off a no name band shirt and the rest of his current attire and dons a white blouse and gray pants with suspenders to replace them. Jog the Beast’s memory perhaps, though somewhere, (a hunch?) Wirt knows this creature has never forgotten him.  
  
Speaking of which, why is he still here? Didn’t the Woodsman blow his lantern out? Then again - it is not against common sense to assume that such a monster would not be thwarted so easily. He trembles at the thought; the comfort of such a tidy resolution shattering. The second heart beats steadily, and Wirt feels a discomforting lightness of being, as though he is being emptied of contents. He lays on the bed, closes his eyes, and waits.  
  
Time passes like smoke and mirrors; he cannot tell if it is ten minutes or one hour when the Beast returns. Wirt sits upright to maintain a semblance of composure when the creature sets a myriad of books and fruit on the bedside table and positions himself next to him. At a cursory glance the books appear to be of subjects he would not mind reading; architecture, art, and history, albeit antiquated. The fruits are apples, pears, and a variety of berries in netted bags.  
  
He fails to connect the dots until the Beast takes an an apple and places it in Wirt’s palms. One cautious bite later; the fruit is sweet and fresh; how long has he been stifling hunger? He consumes the entire thing slowly; the center entirely seedless. His companion watches him all the while, and despite how good it tastes, Wirt cannot shake the sensation of being dismantled by glowing eyes.  
  
“Thank you,” he manages weakly; unable to read the shift in the Beast’s position.  
  
He is dissecting just as he is laid out to be dissected. Even more startling is when the Beast takes one of the berry satchels, scoops the young man into his lap, and begins feeding them to him one by one. Wirt complies, his brain struggling to piece out the information laid to him. It borders on a courtship ritual, albeit a terrifying one. He raises his gaze at the Beast’s face; a smattering of shadows not suggesting anything familiar. Irrefutably inhuman.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Wirt says, unable to turn away.  
  
“No need to understand. Just follow.”  
  
His heart falls ten stories onto the Beast’s lap; it is as though every beat is cradled in his fists, like how Sarah used to say  “I love you” as both promise and reprimand. Soft cotton hits his back; his captor makes casual work of his buttons. Wirt stares at the ceiling and pictures himself playing dead. Why are those hands so warm? What does he plan to do? The foreign heart in him quickens ever so slightly. Garments are tossed aside. Slick claws linger and hold; stray and test. Wirt’s breath grows shallower and shallower until he almost forgets it is a requirement.  
  
He shuts his eyes. Ah. He’s being stroked; gently enough to almost convince.  
  
“What’s the point of this?” Wirt asks with the strength of a frayed thread.  
  
“Make it easy on yourself,” the monster replies almost pleadingly.  
  
A finger parts his insides, slick with oil. Wirt gasps and grits his teeth.  
  
“N-no, really, what’s the point of this?”  
  
Two fingers. The blatant facts aside, the Beast is clearly attempting gentleness. A kiss is left on his forehead; it grates him further, along with the birds in his stomach attempting to flee. There’s some pleasure as well, screaming to be acknowledged. Wirt considers his options.  
  
“You are the only mortal who has ever bested me,” it rasps while entering, the words decorated with restrained affection. “I knew then I had to keep you for myself.”  
  
For the remainder of the creature’s rutting, Wirt remains motionless with equal parts horror and fascination. Blasted monster.  
  
It was already in love.


End file.
